She said we needed silence.
And I knew—we were going somewhere.
Because when she says that, she pulls out the big sweatshirt, the one that smells like pine and forgotten biscuits in the pocket. That’s when I start trotting around the house like I’m warming up, even though we always travel by car.
We ended up in a place called Valle Maira. I thought it sounded like the name of a polite dog—one of those that never steals your spot on the sofa. But no, it was a real valley, full of twists, turns, and scents that changed every five minutes.
As soon as I jumped out of the car, I realized that even the air was sniffing back.
There was the smell of wet earth, damp wood, melting cheese somewhere nearby, and moss. So much moss. It felt like even the rocks were sniffing me as I walked past.
That first day, we didn’t walk far. She said it was to “settle in,” but I think she just needed to catch her breath. We stopped in a tiny village, with stone houses and low doors. I had to tuck in my ears to walk through some of the stables. Yes, because the stables were still there. And even though I don’t usually enjoy the smell of hay, something there smelled… good.
There was also a chicken walking around freely. I looked at her respectfully. She didn’t return the favor.
We slept in a room with a wooden ceiling and a checkered blanket. She laid down my blanket next to her bed, but I chose to rest my head on her shoe. It still smelled like the trail.
And to be honest—I felt small.
That doesn’t happen to me often.
The second day, we climbed. The kind of climb that makes your breath loud. She didn’t talk much, but every now and then she said, “how beautiful,” “how peaceful,” “this bread smells incredible”—yes, because at one point, in the middle of nowhere, a man appeared with a burning oven.
He was baking huge loaves, all cracked on top. He said he didn’t have anything for dogs, but he gave me a piece of crust.
It was warm and crunchy. Honestly? One of the best parts of the trip.
(Said softly, so the view won’t get offended.)
The beauty of Valle Maira is that everything feels real.
The stones are real. The dogs watching you from the courtyards are real. The wind sneaking into your ears? Very real. No fake noises, no shops selling bottled emotions. If you want something, you have to sniff it out.
And I sniffed everything. I stuck my nose into every dry-stone wall, followed trails that led to a wooden fence, then to a tiny lake that smelled like sky.
She smiled a lot. And didn’t take many photos. Or maybe just two—one of a mule carrying firewood, and one of me, sitting beside her at sunset. She said we looked like old friends, silent and content.
At the end of the third day, we stopped in front of a tiny chapel. She sat on the low wall, and I laid down beside her. For a while, we didn’t say a thing.
I listened to her breathing.
She, I think, was listening to mine.
When we got back to the car, she said, “I’m keeping this valley inside me.”
I didn’t say anything, but I rested my head on the seat.
It was my way of saying:
“Me too. But I’m keeping it in my nose.”
